


Getting His Attention

by desert_neon (sproutgirl)



Series: Indulgence [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Gen or Pre-Slash, M/M, Pre-Slash, Prompt Fic, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-07
Updated: 2014-04-07
Packaged: 2018-01-18 13:19:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1429969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sproutgirl/pseuds/desert_neon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Barton is tasked with getting a target's attention. He ends up getting <i>everyone's</i> attention. Especially Phil's.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Getting His Attention

**Author's Note:**

> Based on this [prompt list](http://desert-neon.tumblr.com/post/81753304099/send-me-a-pairing-and-a-number-and-ill-write-you-a).
> 
> Eragonsaphira asked for number 7: _being drenched whilst wearing white_.

“It’s a no go, sir. Target not interested.”

“So get him interested, Barton,” Phil replied, scanning the surveillance monitors. All he could really see was a sea of white, and he cursed party-boy weapons dealers who also happened to be gay and doing business in Miami in time for the annual White Party. Barton was incredibly difficult to find in the crowd, and Phil switched his gaze to the tracking monitor instead. “We have less than an hour to get his attention.”

“I’m aware,” Barton griped. “But honestly, sir, there’s only so much I can do. This place is a buffet of eye-candy. I don’t exactly stand out.”

Phil privately thought differently, but couldn’t, of course, say that. “Get creative. I’ve seen you seduce men who our intelligence listed as straight. Who _identified_ as straight, until you showed up. You’re telling me you can’t catch this asshole’s attention?”

Barton had some choice words to say about that, but Phil took the high road and ignored him. Eventually there was movement on the monitors, people clearing off the dance floor and approaching the stage instead. “Got it,” Barton said. “Going radio silent.”

“Barton!” Phil barked. No one went radio silent unless Phil ordered it, or an emergency cropped up. Barton was most likely up to something, and didn’t want Phil to tell him no. “Barton, god damn it, do not take out your earpiece.”

But it was too late. “Cameras on Barton,” Phil ordered the agent who had hacked into the club’s security. He consulted the tracker. “Looks like he’s at the southwest corner of the stage.”

“Panning,” Agent Tran said, drawing the word out as the camera swept over the crowd in that area of the club. “Got him. He’s climbing the stairs to the stage, sir.”

“What are you up to, Barton?” Phil muttered, leaning over the back of Tran’s chair to get a better look.

It wasn’t just Barton. Several men were lining up, and the MC was walking along the line, feeling some of them up as he spoke into a microphone. “Can we get audio on the club itself?”

“The cameras don’t have mics, sir, and we didn’t think to place any bugs in the main room.”

Phil nodded, already having guessed that to be the answer. He very carefully didn’t grit his teeth when the MC got to Barton, ran a hand up one bare arm, and leered as he said something to the audience at large. Barton flashed the man a flirtatious smile and subtly flexed, and the MC grinned back, patted his chest, and moved on.

And then. And then came the hoses. One from each end of the stage.

“Oh my god,” slipped from Phil’s mouth before he had time to censor himself.

Every single one of the men on stage (minus the MC, of course) got doused. _Drenched_. And if that wasn’t enough, Barton decided to start a dance party under the spray. Men grinding on men, kissing and bumping and wet hands trailing over wet fabric, wet skin. Barton was particularly seductive, his hips circling tightly against his chosen partner’s, his face set in a mask of utter lust.

Phil turned away, looking at the tracking info on the target. “He’s in the audience,” he said, proud of how calm his voice sounded. “Good bet he’s watching.”

“I think _everyone’s_ watching, sir,” Tran supplied, and Phil made a show of rolling his eyes.

“Yes, thank you, Agent Tran. Do you think you could perhaps tear your gaze away long enough to sweep the audience and find our target?”

“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.” She scrambled to do as told, directing the cameras with quick, sure movements. “Back quadrant of the dance floor,” she said after a moment, “but moving.”

“Towards the stage,” Phil pointed out, allowing himself a small grin as the shot zoomed in and it became clear that Barton had finally won the man’s attention. Barton saw it too. On the other monitor he was still dancing and flirting, but Phil saw the smug, triumphant slant his grin had taken.

Barton won the contest. The target let him approach again after, and was much more amenable to his seduction. Barton got him alone, got him sedated, and got the information from his phone.

When he showed up at the motel, his shirt was still sticking to his skin, and his white pants, which had previously left little to the imagination, now left absolutely nothing.

“Commando, Barton?” Phil asked with a raised eyebrow.

“Don’t knock it, sir. Why do you think I won?” He sent Phil a wink and threw himself onto the bed, legs splayed wide as he tossed the data over to Agent Lowe.

Phil carefully regulated his breathing and went to the bathroom, coming back with a couple of towels. He threw them at Barton’s head, but they were caught easily before ever making contact.

Unfortunately, Barton didn’t use either of them to cover himself up, choosing instead to scrub at his hair with one while the other lay forgotten on the bedspread. “That’s everything we need, right?” he asked from under a layer of thick, rough cotton.

Phil pretended he hadn’t been staring in any way, and turned to Agent Lowe. “Lowe?”

“Sir. Looks like. I’ll need a couple hours to analyze, but yeah. I’d say objective achieved.”

Phil nodded. “Well done, Barton,” he said, still looking at Lowe’s computer rather than at his soaked specialist. “But if you ever remove your comm, unauthorized, during a live op again, there will be consequences.”

“Didn’t want to risk a short,” Barton argued, only remembering to tack on a belated, “Sir,” as an afterthought. 

Phil hummed, noncommital. “Go change into dry clothes. Some of us have to sleep in that bed tonight.”

Barton went, and Phil caught the smirk sent his way as the man moved to the bathroom. He ignored it, as well as the extra swagger in the hips that accentuated the round, high, and perfectly visible ass Barton had on him.

Now if only “some of us” didn’t include both himself and Barton.

Phil couldn’t wait to get out of Miami.


End file.
